Chapter 8

I almost lostout on a phone call this week. The producers pretended to bend to my demands when I confronted them. But now that I know the show is airing and Remy’s been watching it, they won’t let me talk to him. Molly won’t answer calls from anyone. Knowing my girl, she probably blocked anything with a Long Island area code.

Finally, I get the producers to allow me to talk to Vapor and Juliet after they’ve been cleared. Thank fuck Vapor’s been boycotting the show.

“Thanks for doing this, brother,” I say, once I’m handed the phone and Jordan clears the tiny “confessional” booth. “Sorry if they asked a bunch of invasive shit.”

“Not a problem. You all right?” Vapor’s low voice is full of concern. He’s always been almost too sensitive for all the shit the world’s put him through.

“Questioning a lot of my life decisions lately, brother,” I answer honestly.

“I bet you are.” It’s not said in a mean way. Just stating a fact.

“Workouts are gettin’ harder.” I hold my breath, waiting for someone to cut off our call. They killed one of my calls with Molly for saying a lot less. “Kinda reminded me of when Eraser and I took you to the gym at The Castle to teach you how to fight.”

He chuckles, even though it’s probably not a great memory. “Yeah? Who are you torturing in this story?”

“Honestly? I’m you in this tale. Been getting my ass kicked.”

He laughs harder. Honest laughter that brings on a wave of longing for home—nights at Zips, racing cars, grilling good food, and bullshitting with each other.

“Christ,” he laughs. “I never knew so many types of planks existed until you two sadistic bastards got your hands on me.”

“You never backed down, though.”

“Good thing, too.” His voice lowers, turns harder. “Probably the only reason I survived that place.”

That’s a conversation killer.

“How’s little man?” I ask, refusing to use Vapor’s son’s name when someone’s probably listening in.

“Good. Butterfly’s got him all signed up for nursery school.” Obviously, he’s decided to use his nickname for Juliet, so he doesn’t expose her to any of the insanity Molly’s had to deal with.

“Shit. Already?” Is Atlas even old enough for school? “You’re making me feel old.”

“It’s only three days a week. Let him hang with other kids his age.” In the background, there’s a rustle and a whisper. “Hang on. Someone wants to talk to you.”

I’m expecting Atlas to babble a happy greeting at me, but it’s Juliet’s soft voice that comes through the line.

“Hey, Champ. How you holding up?” she asks.

“Can’t believe you’re willing to talk to me.”

She scoffs gently. “I know you, Griff.”

At least someone does. I’m trying hard not to judge Remy. I wasn’t there to see how everything went down, but it’s still pissing me off that he was so quick to assume I did whatever the show says I did.

Can’t think about that now. Focus on what’s in front of me.

“How are things?” I ask.

“She’s okay,” Juliet says. “Everything’s…well, as good as it can be.”

“Thank you.” For the first time since I spoke to Remy, I can actually take a breath.

We talk for a few more minutes. Nothing substantial. And nothing juicy enough for the show because they cut me off before my time is up.

A heavy silence settles over me as I stare at the phone. I want to smash it into the wall—or someone’s face.

The list of all the things I’m missing out on continues to grow. The time I’m losing keeps expanding.

I sigh and close my eyes for a few seconds. The ache of longing that’s been following me for weeks returns. I can’t throw a fight. As much as I want to go home, I can’t lose a fight on purpose. Fuck the money. It’s just not who I am.

So until someone defeats me or the producers lose interest, I’m staying in this mansion that feels more like a prison.

Molly

Something about old men celebrating a birthday by getting drunk in a bar seems rather sad. But at least it’s business, something Remy says we desperately need these days, so I lock down my opinions and serve the drinks.

“Why aren’t you wearing a skirt?” the man who’s old enough to be my grandfather says to me with a leer at my jeans-covered legs.

“I’m here to work. Not be decoration,” I retort, forcing myself not to give in to the nervous smile threatening to yank the corners of my mouth up. “That’s why.”

Remy warned me if I wanted to work at the bar this summer, I had to be ready to fire back a good comeback. Never show weakness.

I set the man’s glass of water on the counter with a hard thump. Droplets splish-splash over the sides, wetting my hand.

“Everything all right?” Remy’s hand lightly touches my back.

“No.” The old man laughs. “You should make the gals wear skirts here. Give ’em a uniform.” He vaguely gestures to my legs again.

Weirdo.

Remy’s body stiffens. He lays his thick forearms on the bar and leans over. “That’s not some ‘gal.’ That’s my sister. Watch your fucking mouth.”

His face pales. “I, uh, uh,” he stutters.

“Go sit your ass down.” Remy points to the man’s table.

The guy shuffles away, glancing back once as if he’s checking to make sure Remy didn’t hop over the bar to chase him into his seat.

“See, that’s why I’ve been hesitant to have you working here,” Remy says without taking his eyes off the guy.

“He’s a dumbass.” I glance down at the floor. “My legs would get all sticky if I came to work in a skirt.”

“I doubt he was concerned about your comfort.” Remy pats my shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I had it. I told him I wasn’t here as decoration.”

“Good, but”—he points to the opening of the hallway leading to the office, kitchen, and basement—“I could see your shoulders crawl up to your ears from there. That’s why I came over.”

“Thanks.”

“I need to get someone else in here on the weekends. Starting to realize how much I—” he stops and clamps his mouth shut.

Pain pokes my chest. “Depended on Griff to help you out around here?” I finish for him.

He shakes his head. Of course he doesn’t want to admit that to me.

“I’ll be right back,” he says. “That guy bothers you again, aim the soda gun at his face.”

Chuckling, I nod and pick up the sprayer. “Got it.”

Remy turns and pulls out his phone, swiping and tapping over the screen while he walks to the other end of the bar.

I keep busy by cleaning. The counter has a layer of something sticky that’s probably been there since my grandparents opened his place decades ago. Lots of scrubbing to do.

Sweat rolls down the side of my face and I flick my fingers against my cheek.

The door swishes open. I tip my head to see who our new customer is and smile at the tall guy walking inside. His bright, almost-orange hair sticks up in all directions. Eraser’s cousin, Torch. Our eyes meet and he lifts his hand, waving. He hooks his thumbs in his pockets and approaches the bar.

“Hey, Molly. I didn’t know you’d be here.” He settles on the stool in front of me.

“Remy’s actually letting me help out now.” I sweep my hand toward the beer taps. “What can I get you?”

“Whatever’s on tap.” His eyebrows pinch together. “Are you allowed to serve me?”

That question could have a few different meanings and answers, but I supply the most obvious one. “Yup. I’m allowed to serve beer.”

I pull the beer and pass him the mug, then stand there awkwardly. Go back to cleaning…or make small talk?

“Your hair looks different.” He ruffles his fingers through his own hair and nods at me.

Surprised he even noticed, I tug on my ponytail. “Uh, I trimmed it and lightened it a little. For summer,” I hurry to add, desperate to hide the truth—that I thought a change might stop people from recognizing me as that-poor-girl-whose-boyfriend-cheated-on-her.

“You doing okay?” A hint of pity colors the question. Great, if he hasn’t watched the show, I’m sure Eraser told his cousin all about it.

“Yeah. Fine.” I smile all the way up to my eyeballs.

“Torch.” Remy clasps his friend’s shoulder in a tight grip. “Thanks for stopping by. How you been?”

Torch swivels the stool toward my brother. “Not too bad. What’d you need?”

Ah, so Remy called Torch to come in? Interesting. Torch is in Remy’s friend circle, but I never thought they were particularly close. More like, he tolerates him because he’s Eraser’s cousin and Pax’s nephew.

Remy turns and points at me. “Jigsaw’s supposed to stop by. Have him sit at the bar. I’ll be back in a few.”

“Uh, okay.” Jigsaw doesn’t seem like the kind of biker who wants to take instructions from a teenager but whatever.

Torch slides off the stool and pulls out his wallet.

“Bro, it’s fine,” Remy protests.

“For my lovely server.” Torch holds out a twenty to me.

“I can’t.” My nervous gaze darts to Remy who shrugs.

Torch sets the bill on the bar and sticks his glass on top of it.

“Thanks,” I mutter, scooping up the twenty.

The two of them disappear down the hallway. Remy better not go too far. The old guys keep glancing at me. I avert my eyes and return to scrubbing the counter.

“Miss?” someone calls.

Crap.

I turn and find someone else from the party on the other side of the bar. “Can we get another pitcher?”

“Sure. I’ll bring it right over.” I tilt sideways to check if the table needs anything else. Maybe some nuts to soak up all the beer.

I pull a pitcher and shake some mixed nuts into a bowl, then carry them over. Avoiding the guy who’d been so concerned about my wardrobe, I set the pitcher in the middle of the table.

The front door swishes open again but I don’t bother looking over to see who it is.

“Took long enough,” fashion-police guy grumbles at me.

“Cut it out, Bob,” one of his friends scolds. “Thanks.” He lifts the nuts. “For this too.”

I let out a relieved breath. “Do you want to order anything from the kitchen?”

“Nah, we’re good.”

Something grazes my leg, behind my knee, then travels higher. Hard enough to feel it through my jeans.

I turn. “What?—”

The touch disappears.

But not because of anything I did.

No, there’s a tall, muscled, scarred, and pissed-off biker standing behind me with one hand tightly coiled around my customer’s wrist as he drags it away from my leg.

“Jigsaw!” I squeak but he doesn’t take his eyes off the man.

“Touch her again and you won’t be getting these fingers back.” Jigsaw slowly pulls a hunting knife out of the sheath clipped to his belt and brandishes it in front of the shocked customer. “Understood?”

“I…I…I…” he stutters.

“He won’t, he won’t,” one of the man’s friends says.

“Nah, I need to hear him say it.” Jigsaw lowers the knife but doesn’t put it away.

“Yes,” the man finally says.

“Good. Glad we straightened that out.” Jigsaw releases the man, tucks the knife into its holder, and focuses his attention on me. His intensity dials down a notch. “You all right?”

I bob my head up and down.

“Your brother got any of those chocolate chip cookies tonight?” he asks.

I blink. Did he just threaten to cut off someone’s fingers and then casually ask me for cookies? “Uh, yeah. I think so.”

“Great.” Expectation glitters in his eyes.

Oh, he wants me to get the cookies right now.

I glance at the customers again, but they’re fixated on the table, not daring to look anywhere else.

Certain they won’t be leaving a tip or a positive Yelp review, I return to the bar. Jigsaw shadows me like my own personal guard dog.

“Where the fuck’s your brother?” Jigsaw slides onto a stool and rests his elbows on the bar.

“In the back with Torch.” I duck down and search for the box of cookies Lynette left for me earlier.

Jigsaw leans over the counter. “Are they like your personal cookies or something?”

“Kinda.” I grin at him. “But I’m willing to share them since you just rescued me.”

“Rescue.” He snorts. “You weren’t drowning, little girl. You shoulda kicked him in the nuts.”

I grab a plate and set four cookies on it, then pass it to Jigsaw. “That would’ve been difficult.” I lift one leg and kick at an awkward angle, as if lashing out at someone sitting in a chair.

He chuckles and snatches one of the cookies off the plate. “Funny.” His gaze never wavers from my face. After a few seconds of scrutiny, I squirm.

“Want anything to drink?”

“Coke.”

“Okay.” I slide down a few feet and grab a can from the fridge under the bar. As I turn to get a glass, Jigsaw raps his knuckles against the bar.

“Can’s fine.”

I slide the can to him and he pops the tab.

“How come you’re riding alone tonight?” I ask. I almost never see one Lost King brother without another close by.

He shrugs. “I was out this way when your brother called.” He glances down the hallway. “How come you’re working here, now?”

“Remy finally unclenched and agreed to let me help out.” I stand straighter. “This was my grandparents’ place.”

A faint smile ghosts his lips. “I’ve heard.”

Maybe that’s a weird thing to brag about but I’m proud of what my grandparents built together. “I have another job I’m working during the day. And I’m still at my part-time job at the grocery store.” Why do I feel compelled to share so much?

“You should hang out with my sister more.” He circles his finger between us. “Maybe some of your work ethic can rub off on Jezzie.”

Remy walks up behind Jigsaw in time to hear that last part. “Did you bring your sister with you?”

Jigsaw swivels on the stool. “Don’t worry about where my sister is. Why aren’t you lookin’ after your own sister?” He jerks his thumb toward the rowdy grandpas. “Caught one of them old fucks grabbing her leg when I came in.”

“What the fuck.” Remy’s startled gaze shoots to me. “Are you all right?”

I nod quickly, not sure I like Jigsaw blaming my brother for what some dumb customer did.

The two of them move to the end of the bar for a conversation that seems kind of intense. Every now and then they both glance over at me. Great. One grabby-handed customer might convince Remy to not let me work here anymore.

While they talk, I stare at the small television in the corner. An ad for Supreme Underground Fighter flashes on the screen.

Nope.

I grab the remote and turn the channel.

I can’t wait to leave for college.

Until then, I’ll immerse myself in work. Keep my mind so busy, I don’t have a spare minute to think about Griff.

That has to be the remedy for healing my broken heart.

But deep down, I know it isn’t.